Free Romance: The Art of my Love: a story of betrayal, desire, love, and marriage by Tanya Altbridge

pleasure you did with John. Are you afraid that won’t happen with Paul? So what? That was fine for you before.” “That was before,” I am still talking to myself. “But now I know how it can be. I want that again.”
    It turned out there was no need to have panicked. When Paul and I were finally both in bed, he rolled over on one side, turned off the light, and said, “Let’s sleep.” And he fell asleep. Just like that. No sex, either good or bad. What was wrong with him? He had said himself that he missed me. I’m afraid. A chill creeps over my soul. I wrap my arms around Paul from behind, press myself close to him, warm up a little, and fall asleep.
     
Chapter 13. A Weekend with Paul. Sunday
    Paul is still acting strangely in the morning. I’m probably acting strangely, too, because I can’t relax. I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing.
    Neither of us speaks much. Every so often, I catch Paul looking at me. His gaze holds the sorrow of a doomed man.
    “Emmy, we need to talk.” Paul’s voice is so serious that it scares me. Had he decided to leave me? Or is he sick?
    “Are you sick?” The words burst out of me.
    “No. I’m completely healthy. That’s not it,” says Paul. I exhale in relief. Apparently I hadn’t been breathing. If he’s healthy, then we can fix whatever it is.
    “Is it about your screenplay?” I continue to question him.
    “No, Emmy, it’s about us.”
    I’m panicking again. I can’t keep still and start moving around the kitchen.
    “Do we really need to talk right now? Maybe we can talk at home after I get back with my paintings? Otherwise I’m going to get all upset – looking at your face I’m sure I’ll get upset – I won’t be able to work, I’ll cry, I won’t make any money, and we’ll die in poverty.”
    “Fine,” agrees Paul, reluctantly. “We’ll talk when you get back. Just so we can die rich. But don’t forget.”
    “And you don’t pressure me too much.” I feel a little lighter, as if a weight has been lifted from my soul, and I carefully try to find the clean, clear tone that always used to define our relationship. “You know I don’t like it when people put pressure on me. I’m a creative person.”
    “Okay, creative person, go and create.”
    And I do. I paint for several hours. Quickly, diligently, in some sort of frenzy. Finding ways to capture the weightless, transparent sunlight over the lake, and its reflection in the water, takes my full concentration. I manage to turn off my thoughts and forget about the guilt I feel towards Paul and Rachel, and about John and the sex we had. I think only about that minute and that lake. And the sunlight.
    Something has changed, in the last few days, in my perception of the world. It no longer appears dull to me. Instead, colors have broken through, and I notice so many small details that it feels like I’m wearing special glasses that can zoom in on the things around me. I also catch more and more new smells. Something seems to have switched on inside of me, some sort of new mechanism for sensing the world around me.
    By lunchtime, I need to take a break. Paul and I go into the little town nearby to eat and to buy me groceries for the coming week. I am loading the food into the refrigerator when I feel Paul’s hand on my waist. He is holding me tightly, pulling me toward him. I close the refrigerator door and stand up straight. I can feel Paul’s arousal at my back. I realize unexpectedly that I’m as aroused as he is. All day long, I had wanted to touch him, to feel my skin against his body. Sex with John hasn’t quenched my desire. Instead, it has stirred it up.
    Paul bends down and kisses my neck. Then he buries his face in my hair. I try to turn around to face him, but he is holding me tight and doesn’t let me go.
    “I want you, Emmy. Right now. Can I have you?” whispers Paul into my hair. A shiver runs across my body.
    Silently, in some sort of trance, I walk upstairs. I take off my